Fighting Fate
by Namimakura
Summary: 'Never enter the mansion.' And Italy was doing so well this time. But fate, or destiny, always forces them back. A past iteration of HetaOni featuring America and Canada.
1. Prologue Italy: The Vigil

AN: Hi! Just to terrify you, I'm gonna tell you that this is my first Hetalia fanfic! Treat her gently folks. Anyway, even though it features America and Canada, it doesn't even really qualify as shounen ai. Also, Italy features as important. other characters mentioned, but only those three actually present. I know i have a tendency to start fics and fall off the planet, but i think this one will be different. For one, I started this a week ago and i've already got 10k words. Yay me. I'ma stagger updates and try to maintain a buffer. We'll see how it works out. Anyway, other important info... this is a hetaoni fic. If you don't know what that is, checkout youtube and you'll figure it out eventually. Also, it's a dark storyline and will only get darker as it progresses. it was supposed to be relatively short, but who knows if I'll be able to stick to that? Everything seems to get away from me once I've created it. Chapters of varying length. Hope you like.

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><p><strong>Prologue Italy: The Vigil<strong>

Italy watched the velvety night descend on the world meeting. The brisk air of summer turning to fall whisked in fitful breezes through his open balcony. A sense of detachment swam up his body, poisoning his mind. It was a decay begun sometime in ages past, yet still awaiting him in the near future. Was it destiny? Italy had never cared much for such things and now it seemed that it was all he could dwell on.

The night stars beckoned him forward and forward he strode to breathe in the sweet night air. He feared that sweetness would soon be lost, but hope, that infernal mistress, was ever his silent companion. Glancing at the city, he slowly absorbed the draped beauty of the vast sea of darkness stretched out below. Lights twinkled in the depths, raucous laughter rising above his silence.

He knew he should join the other countries. He should celebrate, maintain his careful watch over them. Yet he could not bring himself to cease this vigil. Something inside him was different, vastly removed from the strange and gentle child who used to play in Hungary's pretty dresses. And so he stood, caught up in the life passing on in the streets below.

It was then, with his eyes picking out shadowy figures shuffling in and out of sight without truly seeing them, that he saw him.

A flash of gold sparkled in the reflection of the streetlamp. It was only a glance, but enough of one that Italy looked again.

Adorned in brown and khaki, the figure with golden strands tossed in the carefree breeze ran down the road, running from the meeting and down the mountainside.

Italy's eyes locked on the strange sight and a silent piece of him prayed that what he was witnessing was not happening.

But the figure continued huffing and running, turning unexpectedly onto a path leading out of town.

Italy started in surprise as his vision started to gray and tiny stars overlaid the city. It was a moment more before he realized he had stopped breathing for over a minute. He opened his mouth and shoved the air with force down his lungs. He ripped his gaze away from the doomed sight and faced his empty room. He stood, thinking, for several moments before his feet picked up one at a time.

Before he knew it, he was racing from the room, dashing down the stairwell and pounding a twin path down the mountainside.


	2. America: The Mission

AN: Erm. I meant to upload Sunday. Honest. But a whiteout delayed me and I didn't actually get home until Monday morning. Regardless, this is actually my first time getting on my computer since... Thursday? I don't remember. Anyway, this chapter is weird because its the first time I've ever included swearing in my writing. And since I'm 23 yrs old and don't swear, that actually means something. But, it doesn't sound right without it, so I tossed it in. I can't help it, America swears. I keep telling him to stop, but he doesn't listen. Writing buffer still equals 'A' ok, so that's good news. I do want to do another editing run at what I have so far, so I'll try to get that done before posting next week. Hope readers out there enjoy. And reviews would tickle and get me all excited?

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><p><strong>America: The Mission<strong>

America was tired. He didn't bother denying it. Why should he, when the mansion was three hours from the world meeting and, fact was, the time was irritatingly close to midnight? He had hardly slept in the past two days either. He blamed this entirely on Italy of course.

_Bastard_.

Anger licked down his gullet, crushing him from the inside out. He faced it and it burned—turning his mouth to ashes.

The mansion loomed ahead of him, more ominous in the dark shadows than he believed it should be. If the situation were different, he would appreciate the mood and presentation. Overhangs hugged the windows just slightly enough to add several layers of angular shadows. The whole grounds were trapped behind iron gates and looped by copious trees. No lights gleamed in the windows and no houses or communities occupied the land nearby.

Staring into the darkened doorway, America acknowledged an unexpected truth within himself. He did not want to enter the house. It was an oily sensation that swarmed his skin—the grease of fear. Haunted houses were brooding and scary. But somehow he knew that this one was different, worse. Paranoia prickled at him and he felt a tremulous suspicion begin to gestate in his mind. The truth bubbled up unwanted, that he did not want to face what might happen once inside. Especially not alone. That admission, even confined to the recesses of his mind, ate at him.

It hit his anger and by then, he had no choice (Did he want one?). He _had _to go inside because he was the hero. He couldn't let anything he feared control him. He would never give in _especially _when faced with the worst odds.

He took a step forward.

He only made it that single step before a strange rustling from behind caused him to swivel slightly. Adrenaline spiked just in time to see a dark-haired, lanky figure launch a jump towards him and catapult the two of them to the ground.

America hit the ground with a hardened thump and a yelp. The shock echoed through his bones and he groaned a moment with the dull ache, but rolled into the fall and kept moving across the lumpy ground to pin the attacker beneath him.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" he shouted, leaning uncomfortably over the body and into the face with an edge of anger, fear and adrenaline salting his voice.

"Eh heh heh, America, you're so heavy…" a chuckling awkwardly face replied to him.

"ITALY?" America settled back on his haunches, still straddling the giggling Italy. "What do think you're _doing _here? And why the hell did you try to tackle me?"

"I was following you, America. I wondered what you were doing in the middle of the night and next thing I knew, here I was! I thought I'd greet you in a surprise way! I know how you like surprises."

America opened his mouth wide (for an angry retort perhaps) then snapped it shut with a click of teeth. His eyes narrowed in at the laughing Italy. He adjusted his glasses, using his extended middle finger to push them further up the bridge of his nose.

"Anyway, what are you doing here America? It's awfully late to be visiting a haunted house by yourself."

With a look of vague defeat—acknowledging that Italy wasn't going to conveniently disappear—America stood and offered Italy a hand.

Italy accepted the hand up and began a rigorous process of dusting off his clothes.

"Haunted houses should _always _be visited at night. It's a time-honored tradition in my country. All heroes must rise to the occasion and stay all night to prove their bravery!" By the end of his speech, America had worked himself up to shouting and pumping his fist in the air. The bravado fell flat on America's ears, but Italy seemed to accept the words at face value.

A beat of silence swelled in the air before Italy responded. "Wow. That's a stupid tradition."

"Why you!" America scrambled over, feeling the anger reignite, grabbed Italy in a headlock and began twisting his fist into Italy's head much like a screw. The gesture was meant to feel playful, but somehow, America didn't think either country was fooled.

"Ah, nooooo! Mercy, America! I surrender!" Italy threw up his hands, flailing like a fish out of water under America's ministrations.

"Fine, fine," he agreed, shoving Italy away. Already, he felt the guilt leaking through him. Italy was nothing but a coward. It meant nothing to pick on him. "Anyway, so I'm going in the house. You can go back to the world meeting or something."

"Eh, but it's dark out there... You should come with me, America. It's scary out there!" For a moment, true anxiety leaks through his face, before the whined appeal returned.

"You'll be fine, Italy. Just go back, okay? I have to go inside." America's face smoothed over with determination and he turned his back on Italy, beginning to stride towards the house in a clear dismissal.

Italy jogged a bit to catch up, grabbing on to America's arm as well. "No, America, I don't think it's a good idea. It's too late at night. It'd be better to come tomorrow with more countries than just us."

America shook his arm in a struggle to free it unsuccessfully from the clinging Italy. He used his free arm to start peeling Italy's fingers from him. "I'm gonna go inside now and you can't stop me! Dammit Italy, just let me go!"

Italy responded by wrapping both his arms around America's one and going boneless—a deadweight dragging on the ground behind him. "Noooooo, it's too scary. We definitely shouldn't go inside, America. Let's go back instead!"

Next proceeded a tricky wrestling match in which America regularly elbowed Italy in the stomach and attempted to use rolling overtop him as a legitimate maneuver. The sounds of grunting and "Hey!" wafted into the air numerous times. It ended with America kicking Italy a couple times in the shins and finally breaking free to stand up in breathless triumph.

"And America is the winner! No prize for second place, Italy." America grinned and it felt a little vicious with a hint of mocking. "That means you go home crying."

"Veh, America's so mean!" Italy swung his head back and forth. "And _so_ into haunted houses, it's weird. If I thought you'd get so weird on your own about it, I wouldn't have told you about it in the first place."

"I wish you hadn't," America muttered.

"Eh—" Italy looked up questioningly.

America ignored him and spoke up louder. "The truth is, Italy, I'm going inside because Canada is in there. I'm going to find him."

Italy's face went blank a moment as he stared at America. "Canada?"

"That's right, my brother's inside. I have to go get him."

"But he…" Italy sputtered and dwindled, words vanishing. He recovered with difficulty. "How do you _know _he's inside? Maybe he went to a café with France or something?"

"No, Spain said he ran out saying something about how he was going to show everyone that he could be brave and stand out too. Apparently they all thought it was me and so they didn't think anything of it. They saw me the next day anyway and they all sort of think I'm a spaz."

"He probably went home to North America to plot something dramatic. I'm sure he's fine. I mean, why would he come to this haunted house? You should look for him at home first." Italy moved to stand up and try to grab America, but America dodged out of his reach.

"No! I know he's in there." Guilt churned through him like bubbling acid. "I'm going to find him and you can either come with me or go back to world summit! Guess which I'd prefer." His voice dripped sarcasm.

He turned back to the mansion as Italy grabbed his shoulders from behind.

"No, I'm sure Canada's fine! We can go back and look harder for him! And if we still can't find him, we can always come back in the morning." The desperation made Italy's voice airy and threaded. Worry clawed down his spine, but he held his grip firm.

America's hand rose sharply, suddenly, pointing to a window on the second floor in silence. The moon swelled, capturing the window in a white glow.

Canada's face was plastered against the glass with eyes held wide and mouth open. Both hands were splayed open and flat next to his face. He didn't seem to be speaking but was merely staring at them and his expression reeked of terror and pain.

Italy and America were frozen in time, held by the bars of that look in the window. Dread swept through them like a wildfire, leaving both weak and trembling.

Slowly, Canada mouthed words so that they could read each tiny message.

_Run. Please…_

Canada's eyes rolled back and his head lolled backward, as if he were staring at the ceiling. Something crept over Canada's neck and collarbone. It was grayed out, nearly black, though in the dim lighting, real colors were indistinguishable. Five protrusions extended, thick and bulging, that were attached to a larger and more square shape. It was as if a giant, misshapen hand had grasped him.

With a swiftness that made the moment seem impossible, the strange hand pulled Canada out of sight.

For several moments, or perhaps a lifetime, there was silence. Then,

"MATTHEW!"

Before Italy had time to react, America had torn free. He fled up the stairs, ripping open the door and running inside the mansion.

The door flapped several times at the night before kissing closed.

There was time enough for a tear to slide down Italy's cheek before the door was violently whipped open once more and the yard outside was left empty.


	3. America: The Search

AN: I should make a note. I do employ videogame logic as this is based on a game. So healing and availability of supplies is a bit skewed, etc. Oddly, I don't have much more to add about this chapter. Hope anyone out there reading it enjoys. I shall patiently wait with determination for reviews... One day.

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><p><strong>America: The Search<strong>

America paid no attention to the hardwood floors or multiple hallways veering off from the entryway. He pounded straight up the stairs without a thought about the beauty of design or the state of shine on the floor. He reached the second floor and took only moments to evaluate the various avenues available before wheeling around to the hallway moving towards the front of the house. The hallway stretched the length of the front of the house and America looked carefully to determine where amongst the lineup was the room he would have seen Canada in.

He picked the left side and the first door. It was locked.

"No!" He shook the door and twisted the doorknob again. "No! Matthew! Are you in there?" Answer me!" He pounded on the door with his fists, voice clogging with distress. "Matthew, can you hear me? Matthew, are you in there?" He twisted the doorknob again with no success.

He dashed to the right, running to the next available door. He turned the knob and this time won the gamble as the door slipped open. He burst inside and quickly glanced through the room.

"Matthew?"

Bookshelves lined the wall on the right side of the door. The left wall by the door held a TV. Two plain white beds more closely resembling cots sat in the right corner, a bit away from the wall. A table with a couch parallel sat in the middle left half of the room.

No answer filled the void of the room. America felt despair winnow through his shoulders, but he pushed it off. He couldn't give up so easily.

Despite the lack of his brother, America entered the room. If he was going to be the hero and rescue his brother, then he would need to look around. Maybe he could find clues as to what was going on in the house. Or a crowbar to get that other door open.

He went first to look at the bookcases. He tried a careful examination of titles or for something out of place, but nothing seemed to be. The floor of the room was clean if a bit scratched. The beds were made and no monsters were hidden underneath. No crowbars or other weapons in sight.

America left, returning to the first door at the other end of the hall. He tried the door again and again, but it denied all attempts to open it.

Panic was riding a crest through his body, but he suffocated it. He couldn't afford those kinds of feelings. He concentrated instead on personal reflection. He had helped cause this mess and his self-hatred for that was fuel to his determination. If that's what it took to find Canada, he would try banging on every door.

He hadn't meant for anything like this to happen. He had thought the house would be terrifying—a thrill. The idea of real danger lurking inside, that his brother could be hurt or worse… He wanted to break things.

He turned and tried the door opposite. It refused to open.

Calm… he had to stay calm. He kicked the door with as much force as he could muster and followed it up with a bark of pain.

He retraced his steps to the short hallway that led to the stairs. The floor seemed to be set up like an 'H' with two long hallways running parallel and connected by one short one in the middle.

He turned right at the other long hallway and found two doors hiding on opposite sides of the hallway. He tried the door on the left, but it was locked. When he tried the door on the right however, he was rewarded. It opened with a soft click and he stepped inside.

"Matthew?"

At first glance, the room held a bed in the right corner by the door and more bookcases in the far right corner. The far left corner contained a row of low-lying cabinets and in the left by the door was another TV complete with loveseat and rug.

But the most distracting feature of the room was the giant gray _thing _standing at least two feet taller than himself. The head was especially immense. If he tried, he was quite certain that his arms would not have encircled it. The body was tiny in comparison to the head but unfortunately still sizable as a whole. Its body was big and bulky but rather crusty and hardened. In the minimal seconds America had to absorb these details, he was unable to determine if the hands were exactly the same was the one that had grabbed Canada, but they were similar enough to be the right idea.

And then, the creature attacked.

It was swift—much swifter than he would have expected a bulky creature to be. He drew his gun and managed only a single shot, wildly missed, before the creature struck his shoulder.

America gasped at the staggering pain that felt quite similar to shovelfuls of icicles being thrust into his shoulder. Luckily, it wasn't his gun arm and he managed another shot, this one much better aimed. It pierced through the thing's shoulder and exited the other side to be lodged in the wall.

America's ears were ringing and his head felt light, almost dizzy. The enemy was before him and it was an enemy that had hurt his brother. He felt light enough to fly and enraged enough to cut his enemy to pieces.

The thing roared in pain and swiped at him again. This time, he managed to dodge, but extra pain shrieked further through his torso. He pulled the trigger and heard the bullet collide with flesh though it was only a partial arm hit.

The creature hit him, fist colliding with his chest and sending him stumbling backwards a couple steps. Two tears tracked down his cheeks as the air vanished in a burst from his lungs. It made a reappearance a moment later in a whoosh that stung painfully and in little bursts on the way down.

He took care with the extra distance between them to aim properly and managed to clip its head as the thing rushed him. As the bullet made contact, the lights promptly went out and brought everything to total darkness.

America let out a startled scream that may have more closely resembled a yell. Still, nothing collided with him. He reached a hand out in front of him carefully but felt only air. Reaching towards the wall, he felt along the smooth surface until he located the switch. Flipping it to the on position, he found himself staring at an empty room.

He found himself disappointed that the thing was gone. He was actually a little surprised at the intensity of his desire to kill it. Fear made a sharp reappearance and it wasn't the house that was scaring him.

He stumbled forward a bit and swept a second glance through the room. It remained empty. He let out a harsh sigh before stumbling in for a closer look. Nothing was hiding under the bed or cluttered on the bookshelf. The cabinets were worn and scratched but empty.

On the couch rested a crinkled and smeared sheet of paper. One of the corners was torn off and some of the ink in the words had bled (water?), but the note was still legible. The handwriting itself was sloppy and slanted in the author's hurry to scribble it down.

_Alfred,_

_I thought I told you to run? It's too dangerous in this house. I hope at the very least that you didn't bring Italy with you._

_Most of the rooms are locked, but I think the keys are scattered through the house. You can probably find them if you look hard enough. But be careful. You have to run if you see them coming._

_The truth is, I don't want you to get this letter, because that will mean you're trapped inside this house with me. I'm scared, Al. I want to ask for your help, but I can't because I don't want you in danger._

_But Al, they've done things. I don't know if I-_

The letter ended there rather abruptly.

Chills and tremors weeded his back and arms. He'd never really had to worry about Canada before. Canada was always so friendly and relatively neutral that no one wanted to cause him harm. That, and they seemed to forget about him a lot. But now he was in real danger and he was suffering and it was America's fault.

He crumpled the unfinished letter with sudden decisiveness and shoved it in his jacket pocket. A glint of light among the cushions caught his eye. He reached a hand in to pull out a small key. The engraving at the head of the key indicated it opened a room on the third floor. He curled it tightly in his hand a moment before adding it to his pocket collection.

Strangely, his vision started to blur. America reached his hand up to feel moisture sliding down his cheeks.

Quickly, he stood and strode out of the room. He just had to find Matthew. More tears fell, but he wiped them furiously away. He sprinted down the hallway and jumped the stairs two at a time up to the third floor.


	4. Italy Interlude: The Glimpse

AN: Valentine's Day. 'Nuff said. And thank you very much to ~Loreyulia for leaving me my first review! In case you were curious, I'm switching perspectives between all three of the characters pretty regularly in this fic. All the Italy sections will be relatively short, but the rest will be a more uniform length. America seems to be quite greedy and runs the story most of the time. _So_ like him, right? XD Anyway, we'll see Canada soon and I hope you continue to read. Let me know if it freaks you out at all, cuz that would also be pretty exciting to me. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Italy Interlude: The Glimpse<strong>

Italy was reminded yet again of how much he hated this house once he'd reached the second floor.

There was no sign of America anywhere.

He paced along the front hallway of the house and tried to decide where America might be.

That sense of pervading doom was enveloping him in a cloud, but he desperately tried to shake it off. There were only three of them in the house right now and last he had seen, all were alive. If he could just get them out before anyone else arrived, the situation could still be salvaged. This thing could still end.

But the well of darkness inside reminded him that once in the mansion, no one had ever found the exit.

Italy opened the door to the room on the right half of the hallway, but it was empty. No Canada or America loomed inside. He shut the door and moved to the left side. He tried the door facing the front of the house and felt it open.

His heart rate jumped to his throat and sped forward since he knew that this was the room Canada had been in.

The door opened and Italy saw the next few seconds only in flashes.

Canada was standing just behind the couch, back bent over it. A gray thing was behind him on the other side of the couch, two hands holding either side of Canada's head. Another was in front of Canada, bent forward so his face was touching Canada's chest. His shirt was torn open; blood trailed along his face and down his body in rivulets. He was screaming and the sound seared the room, immobilizing Italy in that single moment.

_Flash!_

The lights flipped off, so the afterimage of brightness blinded him. He heard scuffling and more intermittent yelps. Thumps echoed and Italy barely had a chance to take a single step before the lights flashed on a moment, then back off.

_Flash!_

In that moment he saw a monster running toward the doorway and Canada slumped inert on the ground. The other creature was reaching down to grab him, but everything went black again.

A solid crash resounded into him, sprawling Italy backward through the doorway and to the ground. He screamed as a foot stepped on his lower leg in a run. A crack reverberated up his tibia as it fractured. Whooshes and pounding sounded and Italy heard several footfalls speeding down the hallway.

_Flash!_

The lights snapped back on and silence again reigned.

Italy looked up, wincing as he slowly moved to a sitting position. The hallway was empty and from this angle the room appeared to empty as well. He shifted in an attempt to stand but gasped and fell back. It felt as though needles were stitching up his right leg from the inside. Instead he crawled into the room.

There was no sign that anyone had been in the room except the puddle of blood slowly congealing behind the couch. The bookshelves were untouched on the left by the door and same with cabinets on the right by the door. There was a bed in the far left corner, white and dreary. The couch was in the middle facing and running parallel to the right wall. A coffee table and a TV sat opposite.

Italy dragged himself to the puddle feeling that inkling of despair worm inside him. He picked up a small piece of metal partially covered in blood. The engraving indicated it was the key to this room.

Using the couch as a lever, Italy managed to finally get himself upright. Key in hand, he limped awkwardly to the door and locked it.

Exhausted, Italy trundled to the little bed in the corner. He knew it wasn't the time, but he needed time to recover if he was going to get them all out of this house.

He slept.


	5. America: The Convergence

AN: Hmmm, I have so much to say and yet nothing really to add. Does that make sense? Either way, at long last, we finally run into Canada! I don't want to ruin anything for anyone but... yummeh. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the angst! Reviews would make me curl my toes and work harder on maintaining a buffer! (eh, the buffer's fine. XD)

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><p><strong>America: The Convergence<strong>

America topped the stairs and stepped out onto the third floor. It appeared to be mostly a landing on the way to fourth floor. The floor itself curved like a 'C' around the staircase. Coming off the staircase was a door at the end to his immediate right. Another door stood in the middle of the curve parallel to the stairwell.

None of these details immediately concerned him, since there was another grayish creature standing with its back to America in the middle of the hallway. He didn't see any injuries or bullet holes so he wondered if it was the same creature he saw before. If not, how many were there in this house?

At first it was unclear what the creature was doing. But America watched the body lurch forward (away from him) and glimpsed a shine of pale gold. He heard the puffs of heavy breathing then and his body sprang into action before the thoughts could catch up.

"MATTHEW!"

The thing turned mid-attack due to surprise at the shout, but America had already launched himself forward and onto the thing's back. He wrestled his arm around its neck, trapping it in a pseudo-headlock. The action caused slivers of discomfort to sift down his shoulder and through his torso, but he barely noticed.

The creature roared strangely, a sound emerging from deep in its chest rather than its throat. It shook from side to side to rattle him off, but otherwise seemed to sustain little damage. America's vision grayed momentarily but adjusted as he adapted to the motion.

Canada was on the other side, crouched down and holding his right side in a clear gesture of pain. Sweat dripped slowly down his cheeks. Tousled, shoulder-length hair that made him seem cute despite his multiple injuries and tired outlook framed his bloody face. His jacket was missing, white shirt torn down the front. His eyes were wide and circled, more shocked than even the thing at America's sudden arrival.

He was immobilized for less than a moment when he reacted.

"Kumajiro!" Canada's exclamation rang like a tambourine and the dirtied polar bear leapt forward (from where?) to attack the thing. It bit the thing's kneecap and growled, sinking teeth in and not letting go.

The thing howled again. It swept an arm forward and struck Canada, sending the country spinning backwards and into the wall. He cried out, a sound somewhere between a shriek and a yelp, and slumped to the floor.

"YOU PIECE OF FUCK!" Scarlet filmed down his eyes and the next several seconds passed in a haze of exploding rage. Body moving calmly in queer antithesis to his mental state, America pulled out his gun and shot point blank down the thing's shoulder.

Kumajiro had released the thing by this point and was bashing its kneecaps repetitively with his claws.

Canada struggled to regain an upright position while it tried to swipe at America behind his head.

America dodged easily—its head was rather gargantuan—and shot again, this time nailing it in the head.

The thing roared and shook, but somehow still refused to go down. It finally bashed its back into the wall to dislodge America. America's shoulder kicked out more throbbing but he continued to not notice. His body reacted, losing the grip, but he stood almost immediately. He struggled to follow as it moved swiftly to disappear down the stairs. He didn't manage to catch up as he simply couldn't catch enough air to move swiftly, but his hatred was beginning to freeze over it had risen so high. If his shoulder hadn't slowed him down, he would have been giving chase.

"You better run! America's here now and don't you forget it!"

Canada was sitting and leaning against the wall with a look of wonder stirring on his face. "You-you came for me…" The wonder touched his voice with a terrible softness.

America started abruptly and turned back to Canada. The haze abruptly dropped from his eyes, returning his priorities. He wasn't here for revenge or to express his anger; he was here to save his brother. He could not afford to forget that for even a moment. He got down on his knees to look closer at Canada's face and injuries. "Of course I did! I couldn't let anything happen to my precious brother." Concern washed further through his body as he realized how much blood Canada had lost. And this was based strictly on what he could see in the hallway. "I need to get you patched up. We should move to a room so we're not so in the open."

Surprise laced Canada's words like poison. "Alfred, you're hurt!" He touched America's shoulder and America glanced down at it. He looked back up at Canada, face devoid of expression.

"Huh. I kind of forgot when I saw that thing attacking you," he said. It didn't matter anyway. He deserved it for forgetting, even for a moment, why he was there. Just thinking about it, however, caused extra bullets of pain to ricochet down his chest cavity. He winced and grimaced, knowing that the thing shoving him against the wall would have aggravated the issue. "Ah well, c'mon,, Mattie, let's get going."

Worry etched through Canada's eyes as America helped him get to his feet. "Let's go to the piano room." He pointed to the middle door. "I don't think they like it in there, cuz I haven't seen them go in very often."

America nodded and together, the two limped inside. The room itself was entirely white. A white bookcase, short, was on the right wall, and the far right was a single, snowy white cabinet. In the center of the room sat a white grand piano. America glanced at Canada in a vaguely sarcastic way due to the lack of decent furniture in the room. The two trudged stoically to the piano, where America sat Canada on the bench.

"So, first things first, let's get your injuries taken care of." Plus, the sight of so much blood was making him a little nauseous, now that the adrenaline was fading. America reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a little brown baggie. "Before I left, I had the foresight to bring a snack for you." He waggled his eyebrows oddly at his twin. It was a little forced but Canada didn't comment. He just raised his eyebrows in response and opened the bag. Inside was a stack of four pancakes and a couple maple sugar candies. Canada smiled. He couldn't help it. The laughter filtered through the battered body and spilled into the air, lightening the weight on both their shoulders. Before long, both had let several uncontrollable giggles escape.

"All right, Mattie, let's take off what's left of your shirt." America helped lift the remnants of the garment off his shoulders and down his arms. America tore the remaining fabric into strips. With the damage sustained, he was able to salvage about twelve strips a foot and a half long and approximately two inches wide.

America used the first to wipe Canada's face and hair. At first touch, Canada shivered. He stared with a luminescent gaze while America focused. He wiped the sweat and blood away, looking for cuts. The face seemed clear so he looked carefully through Canada's hair. The cut itself was just above his left ear, about an inch long. It seemed to have dried, but America used the next two bandages to bind it anyway. He swept Canada's hair to the back and tied it with half a bandage.

"So, tell me what happened, Matt. What's this house really all about?"

Canada looked at the ground and didn't answer for several moments. "Al… I don't know exactly. Those things… They…" His shoulders shuddered and he shook his head without looking up. It took a moment for America to realize that tears were dripping into Canada's lap. "I wish I knew the answers."

America didn't run into this issue very often, so his mind just shut down. Dealing with crying people would never be his forte. Instead, his body went about his appointed task and he did his best to listen. Meanwhile, some place deep inside, he marked off another tally of something gone wrong—something he should have done better. He continued using the first bandage to wipe the blood off Canada's shoulders and chest. By that point the rag was quite dirty and it was time to get to the mess in Canada's side. He pulled a fresh bandage and carefully pushed at the edges of the wound, but it continued to bleed a little. The tear was rather wide, but didn't seem to be as bad as it could have been. He carefully balled the bandage into the wound and tied it into place with two more strips.

"They're really angry, Al. I'm not sure exactly why, but I think it might have something to do with Italy. Once he arrived outside, they seemed to work into some kind of frenzy. I-I don't know what they are, but they're fast, strong and so dangerous…" His voice dwindled off to a precarious silence.

America grabbed yet another strip and wiped at the little cuts and scrapes on his arms and back. He checked over Canada's legs and found no serious injuries. There was a deep scratch on his leg, which he bandaged, but it seemed like it would be fine.

Once done, America looked up into Canada's face and met his eyes. "I'm going to get us out of here, okay Matt? I'll take care of you." Determination undergirded his words and despite the gentleness, they felt like steel.

At this, Canada's eyes darkened and watered. "Al…" He trailed off again, unable to feed words to the air.

"What? What is it?" America lifted a hand up to Canada's cheek and brushed his thumb under Canada's eye.

"Why did you have to come?" His voice emerged as barely a whisper, the words scraped from somewhere hidden inside him. "I wish you hadn't followed, that…" He sputtered to a stop before gathering the courage and pushing past the rock in his throat. "That you had left me here." Even then, the sentence didn't seem quite done.

America felt the blood rush from his face as it turned the color of whey. He clenched his fists and unclenched them, trapped between conflicting emotions. He yanked himself forward eventually and wrapped his arms around his anguished twin. Tight, fierce arms hugged him close and tentatively, Canada's arms wrapped around him as well.

"Never." The word rasped, low and bloodthirsty, from his throat. "Never, do you hear me? You think I would leave my brother lost somewhere? What kind of country would I be then? What kind of hero would I be?" He leaned back and the glare he gave Canada was full of bitterness and self-mocking.

Canada seemed to collapse under the look. America felt a twinge of guilt but ruthlessly squelched it down. This was something Canada _needed _to understand, even if he didn't like it. But it seemed Canada felt the same, because he stared at the ground and visibly rallied himself to go on.

"I want to thank you, I do, but all I can think was if you hadn't come, at least I would know that one of us was out there, surviving and living." He paused and his eyes sparkled unpleasantly. "I don't want to die, but I can't bear the thought of both of us being gone."

Moisture dripped down that cheek and fell, lost, somewhere on the floor.

"Don't. Don't say that!" He moved agitatedly to his feet and began pacing. "I won't let you… I won't let it…" Words just died. He ran a hand through his hair as he struggled. "Just no, do you understand?"

Canada shook his head. "I won't let you die here, Alfred." The tears had dried, oddly, and his face reflected back clearly.

"No!" America grabbed his shoulders and shook him, trying to rattle the calm. "Don't you get it? I'm the one who won't let you die here! We have to get out together!" But he knew that if it couldn't be both, he would at least get Canada out. He would.

Canada gave back a wobbly smile, but didn't answer.

Frustration colored his tone, but he let it go for now. They didn't have all the time in the world to argue after all. "Now eat your pancakes and then you can do me."

"Okay. By the way, what am I gonna do for a shirt now?" Canada reached into the bag and began munching on the cold pancakes.

"Oh that." America managed something like a grin. It was more difficult than he would have expected. "As it happens—" he reached into his pocket again and brought something out with a flourish "—I always carry around a spare in case of messiness on my part."

Canada laughed a little and the sound tinkled like bells for the sheer strangeness of it.

While Canada finished his pancakes, America peeled off his jacket and shirt. It proved to be something of a challenge, given his injuries. He sat back down, breathing a little too hard, and tried to relax.

"What happened?" Canada asked softly, seeing the extent of America's shoulder wound and the array of bruising across his chest.

"Oh, you know, just a run-in with one of those things. Got a couple decent shots off on it though."

Canada shuddered a bit and slithered off the bench to his knees. Snagging a bandage, he leaned forward. "Here, I'll get it." Canada scraped the blood, luckily there wasn't too much, and squashed the fabric into the wound. Grabbing another strip, he tied it in place.

"Thanks, Mattie. Now we just need to get out of here." He started pulling his shirt and jacket back on.

"Wait, didn't Italy come with you?" Canada frowned at him a bit. "Or did he stay outside?"

America froze and stared at him a moment. "Actually, I kind of forgot about him. He might have followed me inside, but I didn't see him. Doesn't seem like something he would do, willingly going into danger…" America frowned and gnawed at his lip, thinking. "Actually, he was acting kind of weird outside. I didn't really notice at the time since I was more worried about you, but he kept trying to stop me from coming inside." To be honest, he wasn't quite certain he cared.

Canada nodded distractedly. "I wonder…"

"What?"

"Well, I think I might have seen him yesterday. I'm not sure since it happened so fast, but… He might be on the second floor."

"Yesterday?" America wrinkled up his nose and blinked a little. "Not possible. I only just got here a couple hours ago."

"Al, I saw you out the window yesterday. There's no way you've only been here a couple of hours." He was staring at America with a 'duh' look on his face.

"That doesn't make any sense, Matt. I ran right up the stairs, looked around the second floor a bit and then came straight up here." His tone was starting to rise and he recognized the slow loss of control of his temper getting worse.

"I know I have a bad sense of time in here…" He shuddered and glanced away. "But even so, I know it was yesterday. And I think I saw Italy right after that."

"There is no way that Italy could have beaten me up the stairs." He struggled to keep his voice level and refrain from snapping.

Canada frowned at him and America got the distinct impression that the wheels were turning upstairs. "You know, I've been thinking that time seemed weird here." His voice was offhand, a bit rambling.

"Huh?"

"Certain things just didn't… Listen, I think maybe different rooms or areas advance at a different rate of time."

America scratched his head. "Different what now?" He struggled to concentrate past the lack of sleep, anger, exhaustion, pain and worry. He wondered briefly why he bothered.

"Time, time." He resituated himself, slowly becoming more animated and he warmed up to the topic. "Say it's 5pm right now on the third floor. But maybe on the second floor it's 7pm. Or maybe it's different from room to room."

"Oh. Well, why didn't you just say that in the first place?"

Canada just raised his eyebrows at him. "Getting back to what I was saying, I think we should look for Italy where I saw him last."

America snuck a sideways look at him before looking at the floor and then away. He stood and helped Canada get up. He felt a strong flash of something he quickly stifled.

"What is it? You don't think…" Canada fell silent.

"I don't know, Mattie… Maybe it isn't nice, but it's not like he's our friend. He's not even our ally or anything." Moodily, he shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his feet, staring at the floor. "Should we really risk our lives if we can escape from here?" The fact was, he refused to risk their lives on that cowardly little country.

Canada's look was full of reprimand. "I wouldn't wish this house on _anyone_. He may not be our friend, but he's not our enemy, either."

America scrunched his face, the 'stubborn-as-a-mule' expression showing its ugly complexion. "We can swing by on the way down, but I don't really want to linger here." He gave Canada a pointed look. "It's freaky."

Canada looked at him, carefully gauging him. America mentally fidgeted, uncertain of how he should react, but Canada didn't say anything. Instead, he moved forward and took America's hand. "Let's get out of here, then."

America grinned in relief and used the last half a strip to wipe his face free of sweat on the way out the door.

The third floor was empty and they took the stairs down the second floor without incident.

"Where to now?" asked America.

"There," pointed Canada and the two cut across the hall to the door America had tried to enter earlier that was locked.

"Last I checked that door was locked. We can try it, but…" Skepticism oozed from his features.

Canada shot a glance over at him in surprise. "Really? Hm, I wonder." He turned the knob and it gave, twisting open with a soft click.

America's jaw dropped open in surprise. "But it was locked like an hour ago!"

Canada laughed a little at him. "I told you, time is weird here." They entered the room and Canada started panting, heart rate ratcheting.

The room was empty, nothing out of place and quite clean.

Canada started to shake and tremble, still breathing heavily.

"Hey are you okay?" The panic was starting to hit America with Canada feeling it that strongly. It frightened him but also made him wish he had found that crowbar.

"I just don't like it in here…" He looked around a second time, checking for anything strange. "Doesn't look like Italy is here."

"No, guess not." America's face closed down and he watched Canada carefully. His brother seemed to get more and more worked up the longer they stayed in the room.

"Listen, Matt, I think we should just leave. He's not here and I don't think we should go searching through this weird place when we could run into those things anywhere." He wanted to get the heck out of this forsaken place before they were attacked again. Or something worse happened.

Canada didn't answer, only gripped America's hand tighter. "Let's get out of this room. I know a better one anyway." He started out of the room and America trailed reluctantly behind.

He was only one step shy of forcing Canada out of the house. It would be for his own good anyway.


End file.
